Pushing Miles

PUSHING MILES

A Chronicle of Motorcycles, Mayhem, and Mettle

Wendy Crockett and Ian McPhee

Copyright © 2023 Wendy Crockett & Ian McPhee

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Visit our website at www.pushingmiles.com

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 979-8-9889893-1-8

Contents

Foreword

Prologue

T-minus Four Days

Monday, March 28 (USA Time)

T-minus Three Days

Tuesday, March 29

T-minus Two Days

Wednesday, March 30

T-minus One Day

Thursday, March 31

Day Zero

Friday, April 1

Australia (Oz)

Sunday, April 3 (Australia time)

Monday, April 4 – Friday, April 15

Saturday, April 16 – Tuesday, April 19

Wednesday, April 20

Thursday, April 21

Friday, April 22

Saturday, April 23

Sunday, April 24

Monday, April 25

Tuesday, April 26

Wednesday, April 27

Thursday, April 28

Friday, April 29

Saturday, April 30

Sunday, May 1

Monday, May 2

Tuesday, May 3

Wednesday, May 4

Thursday, May 5

Friday, May 6

Saturday, May 7 — Thursday, May 12

Friday, May 13

Saturday, May 14

Sunday, May 15

Monday, May 16

Purgatory

Tuesday, May 17

Wednesday, May 18

Thursday, May 19

Friday, May 20

Saturday, May 21

Sunday, May 22

Monday, May 23

Tuesday, May 24

Wednesday, May 25

Thursday, May 26

Friday, May 27

Saturday, May 28

World Record Attempt

Day One

Sunday, May 29

Day Two

Monday, May 30

Capital Scored: Phoenix, Arizona

Day Three

Tuesday, May 31

Little Rock, Arkansas

Day Four

Wednesday, June 1

Day Five

Thursday, June 2

Sacramento, California

Day Six

Friday, June 3

Denver, Colorado

Day Seven

Saturday, June 4

Day Eight

Sunday, June 5

Day Nine

Monday, June 6

Day Ten

Tuesday, June 7

Day 11

Wednesday, June 8

Hartford, Connecticut > Dover, Delaware > Washington, D.C.

Day 12

Thursday, June 9

Tallahassee, Florida > Atlanta, Georgia

Day 13

Friday, June 10

Day 14

Saturday, June 11

Boise, Idaho

Day 15

Sunday, June 12

Springfield, Illinois > Indianapolis, Indiana

Day 16

Monday, June 13

Des Moines, Iowa > Topeka, Kansas

Day 17

Tuesday, June 14

Frankfort, Kentucky > Baton Rouge, Louisiana

Day 18

Wednesday, June 15

Day 19

Thursday, June 16

Day 20

Friday, June 17

Augusta, Maine > Annapolis, Maryland

Day 21

Saturday, June 18

Boston, Massachusetts > Lansing, Michigan

Day 22

Sunday, June 19

St. Paul, Minnesota

Day 23

Monday, June 20

Day 24

Tuesday, June 21

Day 25

Wednesday, June 22

Jackson, Mississippi

Day 26

Thursday, June 23

Jefferson City, Missouri

Day 27

Friday, June 24

Helena, Montana

Day 28

Saturday, June 25

Lincoln, Nebraska

Day 29

Sunday, June 26

Carson City, Nevada

Day 30

Monday, June 27

Day 31

Tuesday, June 28

Day 32

Wednesday, June 29

Concord, New Hampshire > Trenton, New Jersey

Day 33

Thursday, June 30

Day 34

Friday, July 1

Santa Fe, New Mexico

Day 35

Saturday, July 2

Day 36

Sunday, July 3

Day 37

Monday, July 4

Day 38

Tuesday, July 5

Albany, New York

Day 39

Wednesday, July 6

Raleigh, North Carolina

Day 40

Thursday, July 7

Day 41

Friday, July 8

Bismarck, North Dakota

Day 42

Saturday, July 9

Columbus, Ohio

Day 43

Sunday, July 10

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

Day 44

Monday, July 11

Salem, Oregon

Day 45

Tuesday, July 12

Day 46

Wednesday, July 13

Day 47

Thursday, July 14

Day 48

Friday, July 15

Day 49

Saturday, July 16

Day 50

Sunday, July 17

Day 51

Monday, July 18

Day 52

Tuesday, July 19

Day 53

Wednesday, July 20

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

Days 54–56

Thursday, July 21–Saturday, July 23

Day 57

Sunday, July 24

Providence, Rhode Island

Day 58

Monday, July 25

Columbia, South Carolina

Day 59

Tuesday, July 26

Day 60

Wednesday, July 27

Pierre, South Dakota

Day 61

Thursday, July 28

Nashville, Tennessee

Day 62

Friday, July 29

Austin, Texas

Day 63

Saturday, July 30

Salt Lake City, Utah

Day 64

Sunday, July 31

Day 65

Monday, August 1

Day 66

Tuesday, August 2

Day 67

Wednesday, August 3

Day 68

Thursday, August 4

Montpelier, Vermont

Day 69

Friday, August 5

Richmond, Virginia

Day 70

Saturday, August 6

Day 71

Sunday, August 7

Day 72

Monday, August 8

Day 73

Tuesday, August 9

Olympia, Washington

Day 74

Wednesday, August 10

Day 75

Thursday, August 11

Charleston, West Virginia

Day 76

Friday, August 12

Madison, Wisconsin

Day 77

Saturday, August 13

Day 78

Sunday, August 14

Cheyenne, Wyoming

Day 79

Monday, August 15

Day 80

Tuesday, August 16

Day 81

Wednesday, August 17

Day 82

Thursday, August 18

Day 83

Friday, August 19

Day 84

Saturday, August 20

Day 85

Sunday, August 21

Day 86

Monday, August 22

Day 87

Tuesday, August 23

Day 88

Wednesday, August 24

Day 89

Thursday, August 25

Day 90–92

Friday, August 26 – Sunday, August 28

Day 93

Monday, August 29

Day 94

Tuesday, August 30

Day 95

Wednesday, August 31

Day 96

Thursday, September 1

Day 97

Friday, September 2

Day 98

Saturday, September 3

Day 99

Sunday, September 4

Day 100

Monday, September 5

Day 101

Tuesday, September 6

Day 102

Wednesday, September 7

Day 103

Thursday, September 8

Day 104

Friday, September 9

Day 105

Saturday, September 10

Day 106

Sunday, September 11

Day 107

Monday, September 12

Day 108

Tuesday, September 13

Day 109

Wednesday, September 14

Day 110

Thursday, September 15

Day 111

Friday, September 16

Day 112

Saturday, September 17

Day 113

Sunday, September 18

Day 114

Monday, September 19

Day 115

Tuesday, September 20

Day 116

Wednesday, September 21

Day 117

Thursday, September 22

Day 118

Friday, September 23

Day 119

Saturday, September 24

Decomp

Sunday, September 25

Monday, September 26

Tuesday, September 27

Wednesday, September 28

Decomp Continues

Wednesday, September 28 — Current Day

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Glossary of Terms

Appendix A

Interesting Facts and Figures

Meet the Authors

Foreword

On a quest to set a new World Record, the only thing that didn’t break was their spirit.

Why would two people decide to leave their families and jobs to ride motorcycles in both hemispheres and on two continents (multiple times across one of them) over the span of six months while enduring every human and mechanical hardship imaginable, and in the process find their names in the record books?

I don’t have the answer to that question and am hard-pressed to explain it. Wendy Crockett, after becoming the first woman to ever win the grueling 11-day Iron Butt Rally, tried to explain it:

This is my zen. This is my release. This is my connection with that which is both greater than myself and deep within myself. You can’t put those moments into your GPS. You can’t plot a trip to the place where your soul will heal or grow or quiet or shout for joy. You just have to put yourself out there.

The other half of this duo, Australian Ian McPhee, can best be described as a real-life version of Crocodile Dundee. He’s as comfortable navigating a motorcycle across roadless tracks in random African countries as he is crisscrossing the desolate Outback of his home country.

I can’t think of two other people more mentally and physically equipped to pull off this extreme ride.

Competitive long-distance endurance riding began in the 1980s and has become a way for riders to come together, compete with each other, and bond over this odd activity. The competitions are called rallies and are basically a scavenger hunt via motorcycle. Some are fairly short — 8 to 10 hours. Some cover multiple days, up to 11 days for the longest one.

Riders are given a list of bonus locations that are worth points. They won’t be able to go to every location on the list so they must come up with a strategy based on their riding ability to gather the most points in the allotted time. The winner will be the rider with the highest score. Being the fastest rider is not the point. Efficiency, skill, and luck determine the outcome of the rally.

The only difference between long-distance endurance motorcyclists and everyone else is that given the opportunity, they will take their heavily accessorized motorcycles out of the garage, put on helmets, gloves, boots, and armored clothing, fiddle around with so many electronic devices that the cockpit of their bikes resemble the cockpit of a passenger jet, and then take off to every far-flung location accessible by road — some paved, some not, some not even technically a road.

They will ride through any type of weather and all fashion of traffic mayhem. They will stop riding only for the most essential of reasons: fuel, bathroom, food, and rest, in that order and often, all during the same stop. The real point of the ride is to keep the wheels turning because the goal is to ride. It’s all about the ride.

The late Eddie James, who, at the time was the Road Riding Director for the American Motorcyclist Association, headquartered in Pickerington, Ohio, was getting ready to mount his BMW motorcycle after work on a Friday afternoon when a co-worker asked him what his plans were for the weekend.

I’m riding to Utah, Eddie replied.

Oh, what are you going to do when you get there?

I’m going to turn around and come back. I have to be back at work on Monday.

Even though the co-worker also rode motorcycles and worked at an organization that exists to support those who ride, he was stunned into silence. By the way, roundtrip from Pickerington, Ohio to the Utah state line is approximately 3,200 miles.

Long-distance endurance riding is not typically a group effort. Spending hours and possibly days in total solitude isn’t ideal if you aren’t someone who enjoys your own company. Some people will do it with a friend or family member. Lots of couples ride together on the same motorcycle. But the majority of riders seem to flourish by riding alone and only having themselves to rely on to get out of issues that always crop up: mechanical breakdowns, flat tires, equipment malfunctions, getting lost, and altercations with wildlife or other vehicles. The odds are with that many miles ridden, one or all of these will happen eventually. And the rider must figure it out. Alone.

Because so few people participate in this by-design solitary activity, the long-distance community is small and close-knit. It is not unusual for long-distance riders to have friends from throughout the United States and many other countries. The bonds between these like-minded individuals are extremely strong and many become like family. Closer than family in some instances.

And that is how the two authors of this book came to be friends, during a chance meeting on an 11-day rally. They ended up riding from one side of North America to the other in each other’s shadow. Later, when the pandemic kept most riders at home and isolated, the two began plotting this monstrous ride that would span vast distances in Australia and North America and ultimately set a new world record.

On April 10, 2022, I was invited to join a WhatsApp group created by Ian’s wife, Colleen. There were nine of us in the group including Ian, Wendy, and her husband, Mike. It was set up to keep us up to date on the adventure. Little did I know how this ongoing thread would become a part of my daily life for a little more than six months.

On April 15, the Australian part of the ride began with a photo of Wendy and Ian posed by their bikes in front of the McPhees’ house in Queensland. Let the fun begin, wrote Colleen.

Fun? Sure. Some of it was fun to watch. But every other emotion you can come up with also came across this thread. Stress, worry, and even sadness. Some impatience. But each emotion was always followed by relief and happiness that one more disaster had been dealt with. As the catastrophes piled up, it became my morning ritual to check WhatsApp with the statement to my spousal equivalent, Jim. Well I wonder what horrible thing has happened now. I began to dread that familiar bing when a new message was posted.

On more than one occasion I wondered about their sanity. What in the hell was keeping them going? I felt every bit of their own exhaustion, frustration, and eventual relief after each seemingly ride-ending event.

But they did keep going. And going and going. Nothing was too big to stop them. I reached a point where I was completely drained from the day-to-day stress of watching my friends endure the madness of this ride. But like any train wreck, I kept watching. I kept answering the phone and offering assistance or simply a sympathetic ear. That’s all any of us who were witnessing this ride in real time could do.

What follows is the riveting, at times hilarious, story of their escapades. Pushing Miles will appeal to anyone who is curious about what it takes to achieve a certified World Record, who likes to read about adventure, the kindness of strangers, and human ingenuity when faced with almost daily calamities that would stop mere mortals in their tracks.

There are extreme sports. There are extreme goals set by people who participate in these extreme sports. Why climb Mt. Everest or hike the entire Appalachian Trail? Why jump out of a perfectly good airplane or run a marathon? Why ride a motorcycle to every capital in the contiguous United States in alphabetical order by state?

For this extreme sport, it’s about the ride. It’s about pushing yourself to do what others see as impossible. It’s about seeing what others do not. Seeing what is over the next horizon. And seeing what is in your soul.

Lisa Erbes is president of the long-distance riding organization TeamStrange Airheads, Inc. She has organized many long-distance riding events and is a two-time finisher of the Iron Butt Rally.

As you embark on this absurdly tragic journey, you will find tales of woe recounted from two distinct vantage points. One is Wendy, the verbose American who writes in regular uppy-downy writing, and whose spelling follows her homeland. The other is Ian, the Australian country boy who says things like regular uppy-downy writing. His contributions are written italics and often reflect spelling and grammar of his native country.

We both make generous use of motorcycle jargon, regional slang, and blatantly fabricated nonsense words. We have included a glossary of these terms at the end of the book. This may or may not diminish your confusion, depending on how many beers went into any given glossary entry, but it sure amused us to write it.

Throughout this book we have also included maps to help you navigate from capital to capital, commemorating the few blessed moments of respite amidst our sea of cataclysms. This legend should aid you in deciphering the stops along our journey.

For bonus content, we invite you to visit pushingmiles.com where you will find interactive tracking maps, pictures, and videos from throughout the journey. Whether you follow along as a companion to the book or seek specific events by date, you will experience the chaos on a whole new level!

Prologue

One thousand miles a day; piece of cake. Well, for us anyway, Ian and me. Though we hail from opposite sides of the globe, we met through long distance motorcycle riding competitions and found, having linked up quite by accident for the better part of a particularly aggressive Iron Butt Rally, that our riding rhythms are nearly perfectly aligned. Fuel range, sleep schedules, food, and other of (ahem) nature’s requirements — all uncannily synchronized. So it seemed perfectly reasonable when, in late 2019, Ian told me he had an idea: 66,000 miles in 65 days. Barely over 1,000 miles per day, a leisurely pace for the likes of us.

Here’s the twist: we would be visiting all the capitals ... in alphabetical order by state, including Juneau, Alaska, and Washington, D.C., a ride he cleverly named the Alphabetical Capital Expedition, or ACE. Now we were talking! Limited ability to route around weather? Traffic beyond an Aussie’s wildest imagination? Way too much time bouncing around New England with its infamously glacial speed limits? Sounded intriguing! But I can’t give Ian all the credit; I came up with a diabolical postscript all my own, visiting itty bitty towns whose names begin with letters not represented in the alphabetical state list. Z, X, Y, Q, J, H, B. Backwards, because why not. Careening coast to coast to coast, the ride ballooned to 83,000 miles in 78 days. For good measure we mimicked the alphabetical quest concept in Ian’s homeland of Australia, giving us a final plan that clocked in at a respectable 100,000 miles in less than 120 days.

And plan we did, for nearly three long years. The pandemic gave us way, way more than enough time to hash and rehash every conceivable detail, accounting for all sorts of realistic delays and contingencies as predicted by two people with a combined two million two-wheeled miles under our belts. Even after allowing five full days for services, which as career mechanics we would be performing ourselves, we were still barely skimming 1,100 miles a day.

We entertained lofty goals such as eating at least one meal a day and spending a bit of time exercising off the bikes. Though we’re both fine with sleeping rough, we figured we ought to get a hotel and bathe probably once every three days or so. You know, fancy stuff like that. Ian stores a rally bike in America, so in October 2021 I retrieved his trusty steed and associated accoutrement and began a full-scale ground-up service and prep on both of our bikes. I gathered all the necessary service parts, tires, tools, equipment, fluids, snacks, toiletries and anything else I could stash in storage for five months that might save us time or trouble on our service days. I carefully scouted out potential locations for our service headquarters, finally settling on the small town of Odell, Illinois, located about smack-dab in the middle of the country. On April Fools’ Day 2022, (date chosen specifically because it suited our goofy humors) I would hop on a plane for Oz, elated to begin what was sure to be the most flawless, pleasurable, and meticulously planned mega-mile ride of all time.

If you’ve made it this far into the book, congratulations! You’re either into the physical flagellation we call Long Distance Riding, you’re intrigued by people who undertake spectacular feats of mind-blowing endurance and unrelenting determination, or you’re some kind of weirdo sadist who likes watching two grown-ass adults, who should rightfully know better, flog themselves well, well beyond the point of reason. Don’t say we didn’t warn you. And since we’re throwing out the disclaimers, did you read that part where I said we are both mechanics? Here’s a fun fact: Swearing can be one of the most critical tools in one’s kit. It’s true. Enthusiastic cursing is even listed as a critical step in some service manuals, just not the ones sold to the public. Now some people may say that swearing is a sign of a weak mind, and frankly, fuck those people. Because there are times when that bolt is seized fast, rusted and gunked into place from years of neglect and abuse, and all the heat and penetrating oil and gentle coercion in the world aren’t going to do a damn thing. The bolt laughs in your face, then kicks your puppy for good measure.

At this point, experienced mechanics won’t get mad, they’ll get sweary. They’ll toss out a heartfelt, Fuck you, you motherless goddam piece of salty tick-infested goat-ball-licking miserable bastard-ass shit monster ... and then the bolt suddenly breaks free. It’s just science. I’ve tried the breaker bar, I’ve tried the impact gun, now it’s time to bust out the heavy artillery with some language that would get me defrocked, if I’d been a better person before I’d encountered that bolt. Anyways, all of this is to say that if you are rendered faint by words like toot and tooshie you’ll probably want to turn back now. We’re going to swear. Not like a ridiculous shit ton of swearing or anything, but enough to get the job done.

As you progress through the various levels of hell that comprise our journey, please don’t think the occasional medically indicated use of swearing as a jackhammer or a blowtorch means we’re just a couple of simple-minded idiots. I believe in time you’ll find that our actions speak quite loudly for themselves in that regard. So strap in, folks, and brace yourselves; things are about to get pretty bloody rowdy.

~ Wendy

T-minus Four Days

Monday, March 28 (USA Time)

Go time! The car was meticulously packed, the trailer was loaded and configured with all the skill of a true Tetris master. Lists within lists, all checked and double checked before that list could be checked off other lists. You think I’m joking, but I seriously love my lists. After three years of planning and six solid months of physical preparation, everything was finally coming together so breathtakingly flawlessly that I was actually able to leave my home in Rapid City, South Dakota more than a day ahead of schedule.

Just kidding. This isn’t that kind of adventure. What really happened is that everyone in my household had contracted some vicious strain of norovirus and there were already more patients than bathrooms in the household. Rather than risk me getting sick and having yet another person trying to out-maneuver everyone else for coveted access to the porcelain throne, they demanded I get the hell out while the getting was still good. I was appreciative of the gesture, while at the same time I was disappointed that my little going-away party had turned out more like the pie-eating contest scene from Stand By Me. I didn’t spend too much time indulging my disappointment, however; it was nearly 7 p.m. when I received my eviction notice and with 920 miles between me and Odell, Illinois, I was in for a long night. Longer than anticipated, it turned out, because I was barely past Wall, South Dakota — a mere 70 miles from home — when I totaled my car on a deer’s face.

Yeah. I wish I was kidding. Being a moonless night, I was already going under the speed limit when I saw this miserable basta (oh, right — self-imposed swear limit) ... when I saw this bucking buck standing on the right shoulder. No problem; I moved to the left lane and smoothly applied the brakes as the distance between us narrowed. I was going well under the speed limit by the time this dumbass stepped directly into the front right quarter panel of my 3.5 ton projectile. I’ve never in my entire life hit anything bigger than I could eat in one sitting, so I wasn’t prepared for how intense the impact was. I immediately began to fishtail all over the (thankfully empty) highway. There was no left shoulder to speak of, and the median dropped off into a steep grassy slope. I had nowhere else to go to avoid the miserable prick, but I was able to pull out of the fishtail and ease to the right shoulder without further incident. My heart was racing, I was pissed off and freaked out, but also unhurt and pretty damn proud that my reaction after the impact hadn’t made things any worse. Other than some flying chunk of deer debris that had broken my motorcycle’s windshield support bolts, I kept her up (in motorcycle terms) and the only fatality was my car. I honestly expected to hop out and slap some tape on the headlight, maybe on some bodywork, but she was seriously mangled. The radiator was in the process of vomiting out the last of her load, the wheel was twisted in a very unnatural angle, and the passenger side doors were buckled in to the point where they would no longer open. The hood was toast and all manner of wiring dangled where no wiring had dangled before. And that’s only what I could see at night. I was alive, the bikes were alive; now it was time to retrieve my heart rate from the stratosphere and come up with a plan.

The second piece of bread in this shit sandwich was that Mike, my husband, was one of the afflicted patients back at home. Being only 70 miles away was a silver lining in that I was inside my 100-mile tow limit and could have my car dropped at a shop near home. The downside of being located at the midway point of a 140-mile round-trip drive (with half of that spent sitting next to a stranger in a tow truck) when you’ve got explosive emissions from both ends, is pretty self-explanatory. Besides having Mike bring me his truck and having him accompany my demolished car back to Rapid City, I’m not sure what my options were. I could ride home with the tow truck to swap vehicles myself, which would require either an expensive out-of-pocket tow for the trailer or leaving the trailer behind on the side of the interstate. I’d planned on making the drive straight through — during daylight hours, for that matter — and had only secured the contents of the trailer enough to deter casual thievery while I ran for a quick pee, not while sitting completely unattended in the middle of nowhere for hours.

I could rent a truck, sure, which would only be a Band-Aid to get the trailer to Odell. It was wildly impractical to rent a vehicle for six months only to have it sit in storage the vast majority of the time, but without having ready access to a vehicle with a hitch our entire plan would implode. We would have no way to move the trailer, no way to use the hitch-mounted tire machine, no way to transport ourselves or anything else off the bikes. The plan necessitated some kind of full-time four-wheeled conveyance in residence in Odell, one that didn’t annihilate our budget right from the get-go. I gritted my teeth and gave Mike a call. He was extremely displeased about the situation, but he dragged himself to the truck and headed my way. I got Tow Insurance Company on the phone and made the necessary arrangements, explaining that we would need time to swap the trailer and all the contents of the car over to the truck. They were pretty cool about it; since I wasn’t far from the geographic middle of nowhere, it was going to take them a while to reach me anyways.

Requisite conversations concluded and with nothing to do but wait, I settled into the isolation of my own black world and began to seethe. I had to leave at that precise moment, more than a day ahead of schedule, and spend precisely the wrong amount of time fueling up the car in order for my conveyance to merge with that deer’s stupid ugly face. I catalogued all the myriad ways in which the past few hours could have, and should have, unfolded differently. It was malicious and unfair. I decided I deserved vengeance, or at the very least a souvenir. I grabbed a flashlight out of my tank bag and set off walking up the freeway in search of the reviled beast who was responsible for my current situation. With no landmarks against which to orient myself, it’s hard to say how far I’d gone — a quarter mile maybe? — when my flashlight faded and died.

But I was a woman on a mission and I wasn’t going to let this little stumbling block slow me down. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, flicked on the flashlight, and soldiered on ... for a minute, maybe two. As the crisp night air crept in and my frustration began to subside, I took stock of my situation. Surely, I had to be close to the deer by now, but I was also standing on the side of an unlit interstate in the middle of the prairie on a moonless night, depending solely on the pitiful little beam emitted from my phone, wearing all black. Black shirt, black sweatshirt, black shorts. I sighed. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if I died in the pursuit of retribution, and honestly, the exercise had probably provided more of an endorphin boost than I would have received from standing around kicking a mangled deer corpse. I turned, somewhat begrudgingly, and made my way back to the relative safety of my wrecked car. I sat and waited.

When Mike finally arrived, he didn’t have much to say, so we got to work. All the bins and tools and parts, so painstakingly arranged mere hours before, were hurled from one vehicle to another with reckless abandon. It’s amazing we didn’t lose anything critical in the process. We were down to swapping the last few items when the tow truck rolled up. Just like that, five hours into our six-month trip, the Traverse was unceremoniously hauled off and the Tahoe became the official cage of the USA Alphabetical Capital Expedition. I updated Ian on the situation, and we agreed it was probably a good thing we’d gotten all our bad luck out of the way early. The Universe snickered quietly to itself, I gathered my composure, and I accelerated back out onto the interstate. I’d torched four perfectly good hours and there were still 850 miles between me and Odell.

T-minus Three Days

Tuesday, March 29

I spent the remainder of the night and a good part of my day driving straight through to Odell. It’s weird hopping into someone else’s vehicle; nothing is located where my muscle memory thinks it’s supposed to be and the phone holder doesn’t fit my phone and I’m starting to realize how many non-critical comfort bits I’d inadvertently left behind in the Traverse (R.I.P.). Nothing worth stopping for, just enough to throw me off my game. Still, I was indescribably grateful for the contribution of the Tahoe because without it, the ACE ride would have been over before it began.

I headed directly to Odell, arriving at the storage facility that would become our Ground Zero. I’d done absolutely exhaustive research trying to locate a property inside our target region, within our budget, with available units big enough to accommodate both the car and trailer, ideally with power, with 24-hour access, and an owner who wasn’t going to be too fussed if we were to do some low-key, very quiet, non-messy, practically saintly kind of repair work in there from time to time. That was far easier said than done, and after many months of work (and while I should warn you I am the world’s biggest fan of hyperbole, I’m not actually exaggerating in this case) I finally tracked down this joint. Odell, Illinois: Population 989. Great location with easy interstate access, situated right on Historic Route 66 with a gas station directly across the road.

Who could ask for anything more?

They have extra big units, long enough to accommodate both the car and trailer, although the desired unit was currently occupied and would be available the following month. Then the following month, then maybe a month or two after that. Turns out the current tenants weren’t in all that big of a hurry to vacate and we were running out of time, so the owner had offered a workaround: two separate units, one a bit bigger than the other, to tide us over until the single extra-big unit came available. It wasn’t going to be a big deal initially; while I was gone in Australia the truck would be living in long-term parking in Chicago, meaning we wouldn’t need to max out our storage space until six weeks after we took up residence.

I agreed to the arrangement, signed the contract, and sent a check to cover our deposit and first few months’ rent to lock everything down. With all the excitement of the day I hadn’t given the storage situation much thought, but when I finally found myself sitting in front of the units, I recalled that the Tahoe is actually a smidge shorter than the Traverse. Some quick measurements revealed that the units were ever-so-slightly larger than advertised, meaning we had barely enough room to squeeze the truck in the smaller of the two units while the trailer fit perfectly in the larger. With a price difference of only about $25 per month between the compromise units and the promised single unit, we decided to stay put, pay the remainder of our six months’ rent, and proceed with the confidence that everything storage-related was set in stone. I appreciated, after the rough night I’d had, this unexpected little stroke of good luck. I’ll take it where I can get it!

At this point I was running on empty and found myself questioning my ability to execute days like the past 24 hours for three months straight. I wanted to do the bare basics, grab a meal, and get settled into the hotel — alas, I had loads of work still ahead of me. I left the bikes on the trailer, knowing all that heavy lifting would be infinitely easier when Ian and I handled it together. I’m normally pretty slick with backing up trailers, but the space between rows of storage buildings was a bit snug, and our unit itself was only about 4" wider than the trailer. I made a couple half-hearted runs at it but couldn’t manage to get the trajectory quite right. I resigned myself to unloading the trailer’s contents into one unit and moving the trailer into the other by hand.

I’d just lowered the trailer’s ramp when a car pulled up. You want to back that up? a gruff old man barked at me from the driver’s seat.

Yeah, I was thinking about it, I replied. Bit of a tight fit. Would you mind spotting me?

Well, that’s why I’m here, ain’t it?

I smiled to myself. This grumpy old cuss felt obligated for whatever reason to assist this poor helpless woman with her big ol’ trailer, yet he clearly wasn’t happy about it. I’m guessing the lady in the passenger seat may have had something to do with this particular chore. I closed the tailgate, hopped back into the truck, and proceeded to snicker to myself for the next five minutes or so while he scream-dictated my tasks.

NO! I didn’t say to turn THAT much! Just barely to the right! Gawd, now we have to start over. Pull forward.

I can’t tell you why this guy’s attitude tickled me so much, because he was clearly displeased at my painful ineptitude, and I’m guessing that my audible giggling wasn’t helping matters any. We finally got it aligned perfectly and I eased it all the way into the unit, with a couple inches to spare on all four sides. Perfection. When I turned to thank my nameless cranky benefactor, he had already gone. He’d saved me a solid hour of work, demonstrably against his will, and faded silently back into the cornfields before I could force my unwanted pleasantries upon him. I’d gotten my first taste of what it was going to be like operating in a town of under 1,000 people. If we had something going on, by golly almost everyone knew about it. This was gonna be great.

Generally satisfied with my day’s work, I locked up our units for the very first time and made the 14-mile journey into Pontiac, Illinois. Pontiac is a much bigger town, with a population fairly bursting at nearly 12,000 souls. This is the town where we would find grocery stores, auto parts stores, restaurants, and the hotel that we would call home. My friend and fellow Iron Butt Rally vet Rick Martin lives in Pontiac; it was his replies to my rather cryptic social media inquiries about storage options in the greater Chicagoland region that resulted in my current presence.

As torched as I felt, I also hadn’t had a proper meal in a few days, what with all the chaos and mayhem and shifting of schedules. I invited Rick out to dinner and we met up at a restaurant a few blocks from my hotel. We chatted away over a nice turkey dinner, discussing motorcycle travel in a very broad context. He didn’t have the slightest idea what we were doing here; he didn’t even know there was a we involved. He’d gleaned that it was something big, really big, and in keeping with Iron Butt decorum he didn’t press for any more information. Fat and happy that things were finally going my way, we said our goodbyes. I still had a ton of staging to do in storage, but I figured I’d earned a good night’s sleep; I retreated to the hotel and dropped immediately into bed, dead to the world.

T-minus Two Days

Wednesday, March 30

An early riser by nature, I was up with the sun and ready to fine-tune things in storage. I pulled our many tires off the trailer — 18 in all — and carefully arranged them along the side of the smaller storage unit. This would make things easier and faster when it came time to unload our bikes upon our return, because once the clock started ticking on Ian’s 90-day visa, every second would count. I unloaded the truck and organized our multitudinous storage bins, each dedicated to a particular category of item. There was a bin for Ian’s spare parts and another for mine. A bin each for toiletries and personal items and snacks and tools. A bin with general items for services and repairs, like tin foil to prevent draining oil from spilling on exhausts, a variety of funnels, Loctite and anti-seize, super glue to repair both mechanical and personal injuries, four types of tape and as many types of zip ties, spare hardware, and lubes of all kinds. If you can think of it and it might make a job go more smoothly, I probably packed it.

During the process of prepping our bikes for this undertaking, I’d made a list of every single tool and supply I used along the way and ensured they were included in my final packing. It’s amazing how many sundry bits get changed out over the lifetime of the bike, and these bikes have been at it hard for 20 years, give or take. That’s not even counting the incredible number of rally-related accessories (or farkles) we’ve added to the mix. So while the service manual says that’s a 12 mm bolt, it might actually have a 13 mm head. I sat back and surveyed the thorough, logical arrangement of our many requisite supplies: I was ready, I thought, for damn near anything.

~

Preparation. It’s important, right? For three years we had both been at it: maps, routes, service requirements. Wendy’s Australian bike purchase, then sourcing a fuel cell and fitting all the bits Wendy shipped over for just one ride. Review of fuel access in Australia, which can be problematic for long distance riders on the clock in our country, locating a suitable service location in the USA, watching the exchange rate kill the Australian dollar to the US dollar. Watching as Covid flogged everyone, then the rising fuel prices — and we two are juggling total costs against all these factors. Against these costs ballooning, our tyres represented one of the largest single costs, and as a natural progression of conversation ideas, Wendy floated that we run car tyres. Wendy’s motorcycle, a 2005 Yamaha FJR, is a reasonably easy wheel size to find a tyre for; my motorcycle, a 2001 BMW R1100RT which I dubbed the Buffalo, is the exact goddamn opposite, as it is with everything. But as is the norm and became the accepted standard, Wendy found a supplier who could give us enough tyres to run the 83,000 miles. Our tyre costs went from thousands to hundreds, and we breathed a financial sigh of relief.

Once again, Wendy shouldered the main load while I watched from the other side of the world. She ferreted out, secured, stored, stacked, packed, and corralled the enormous pile of everything we would need in the USA. Meanwhile, Wendy's very carefully sorted, catalogued system was being created in the exact opposite way in Oz. We had tyres for both bikes organised in Canberra to be fitted right before the Oz ACE starts, our minimal tank bag food was picked up two days before we actually needed it, and along with drinking a few beers, eating meat pies, buying Wendy her first pair of double plugger thongs, we were ready. The preparation for this ride was not the same as a rally. While rallies tend to be a very short, sharp, focused effort, we were undertaking a very long relatively steady ride, so our preparation differed.

~

I ran a few more errands around town, confirming the used oil recycling regulations at the nearest auto parts store and deciding at the last minute to grab a neck pillow for the flight. I finally made my way back to the hotel, settled in, and in my ignorant cockiness, since my actual flight wasn’t until Friday afternoon, I began looking up hiking trails in the area that I might enjoy in all my copious leisure time. It was central Illinois so the trail search results were pretty grim; still, I’d managed to button up all my chores quite nicely and the world was essentially my oyster for the next 38 hours. I’d eventually make my way up to Chicago and overnight in a hotel near the airport, which is where the truck would be stored while I was away.

I rarely go out to eat in my normal life and I have a particular distaste for chain restaurants when I have other options. I did some digging around and found a little local joint that specializes in almost exclusively locally sourced meat, dairy, and veggies. Their menu looked amazing, so I called and placed an order for carryout. At the prescribed time, I meandered out to the stalwart old Tahoe and ... click. Nothing. I tried again: crickets. It wasn’t even trying to start; it acted like the battery had just enough juice to light the dash, but when faced with any greater draw it wilted away like a pathetic neglected flower. You’ve gotta be kidding me. Mike has never had a moment’s trouble with this truck, and now all of a sudden it won’t even allow me to feed myself. Sigh. All my serious tools, like my multimeter, were staged in Odell. I had spent the previous few years undertaking aggressive physical training in preparation for this ride, and as such I was perfectly capable of walking 28 miles round trip to fetch it, though my dinner would be long discarded by the time I got back. I grabbed the tools I had handy and assessed all the usual culprits; no dice. Mike had a scanalyzer stashed in the truck that I plugged in and got a mass air flow sensor code. Not good. I called the restaurant and apologized profusely, explaining that even if I started sprinting towards them at that very moment, there was no way I’d arrive before they closed. I knew they don’t offer delivery, so I was surprised when they said they’d send my order with one of their employees as soon as they closed. It looked like I was going to eat after all! Yeah! The question is, would I be able to get myself to the airport in 36 hours?

I spent a little more time hammering away at truck troubleshooting, without success. My food arrived, I praised (and paid) my delivery guy like the god he was, then I retreated to my room to nourish myself and confer with Rick about my newest problem. He knew a guy who knew a guy who worked at the Chevy dealership, conveniently located directly across the street from the hotel, and arranged to have the Tahoe towed there in the morning. Outfuckingstanding. Content that I had some kind of plan in motion to tackle the immediate problem, I settled in to enjoy my phenomenal dinner and research the distressingly sparse public transportation options between Pontiac and Chicago O’Hare before finally calling it a night. Suddenly tomorrow seemed much too close. Maybe this should have been the omen I listened to, since the deer was clearly a fluke, but no. This was another mountain to be climbed and I was strapping on my hiking boots. Come hell or high water, I was going to make that plane to Australia.

T-minus One Day

Thursday, March 31

Rick isn’t much of a morning guy — his morning is about three hours past mine — still, he dragged himself out of bed with his multimeter first thing. In the meantime, I’d done a bit of research into whether a faulty mass air flow sensor could be responsible for the Tahoe’s symptoms. I called around to the auto parts shops in town as soon as they opened, but nobody had a mass air flow sensor in stock. It would be a couple of days, they said; that’d be a couple of days too late for me to make my flight to Australia. Once Rick rolled in we plucked away at the problem, and one by one, we ruled out the easy fixes. We’d about run out of leads when the boys from the Chevy shop showed up, ready to tow her off for assessment. This was going to be a long, boring, and probably expensive day.

Rick had other shit to do besides babysit a sad sack waiting on her busted truck, so he wandered off while I begged the hotel for a super duper late checkout. Reprieve request granted, I made busywork trying to figure out alternative means of getting my ass to the airport, should it prove necessary. Half a day later, I received a call; my mass air flow sensor was confirmed bad. (I already knew that.) There are no mass air flow sensors in town. (Ditto.) They could get me rolling by unplugging the sensor, but I’d have to source another one on my own. (Record scratch.) I’m sorry, WHAT?!? I could have fetched my own damn dinner simply by unplugging the faulty sensor? This is some seriously useful information that absolutely should be on the interwebs. (Note to self, one year to the day later: You really should post this shit on the interwebs.)

Finally, late that afternoon, I walked my extremely happy hiney over to the dealership. For some weird reason (I’m crediting Rick here, assuming the rapid-fire turnaround was a one-off) they had Googled my name, so I got into a long conversation with the boys behind the counter regarding long distance motorcycle riding and the broad strokes of the ride I had waiting in the wings. It was fortuitous that I’d known the right guy who had known the right guy, and I was more than enthusiastic to talk about my chosen sport since a nearly functional vehicle was sitting right on the other side of that conversation. Good luck in the midst of my bad luck. I paid the bill, we shook hands, and I sent Rick one last message thanking him for all of his help: past, present, and (presumably) future. At this point he still had no idea what we had planned and no idea what a huge role he would play over the course of the summer; we were just happy to have reconnected in the far-flung world of long distance riders. I made record time on the one-block trip back to the hotel, tossed my meticulously cataloged and packed belongings into the back of the marginally running truck, and with some mild trepidation, I hit the highway.

The truck didn’t behave at all unusually with the sensor unplugged, which was a relief. Still, I didn’t want to park it with a known fault so I got to work making phone calls to auto parts stores in close proximity to my target hotel. As luck would have it, the closest store actually happened to have the sensor in stock. It wasn’t terribly expensive and was a simple job to replace, so I did the swap right there in the parking lot. A few ignition cycles later, the check engine code had cleared and the truck was back to its old self. At least I got all of my bad luck out of the way early!

While I was out on the town, I searched myself up a little mom-and-pop soul food restaurant. I didn’t realize it was a brand spanking new place until I walked in and found a professional photographer taking pictures of each dish for their new menu. I excused myself and moved to exit, but the owner insisted I stay. I was in absolutely no hurry, what with all of my worldly problems having been resolved, and I was as content to sit there as I was to sit in some stuffy hotel room. What followed was among my favorite random encounters of this entire adventure. We chatted at length about life; she and her daughter had been running a small take-out place for years and had finally decided to go all-in on a real sitdown location. We talked about her background and mine, about my upcoming flight to Australia and some of my past travels. She was busy in the kitchen as well, preparing each dish to look its very best for its photo, and interspersed throughout the cooking and conversation she would bring me various dishes to sample while awaiting my main dish.

I sat in there for hours, reveling in the fantastic smells and mouth-watering tidbits, feeling like I was reconnecting with an old friend. When it finally came time to leave, she refused to charge me for any food. I protested, to no avail, so I settled on leaving a gigantic tip instead. One thing I knew for sure, I had to bring Ian there when we flew back from Australia together. Once again fat and happy, I made the short trip to the hotel and prepped the Tahoe for long-term storage. I disconnected absolutely everything that might cause a draw on the battery, made sure to park it somewhere that wasn’t shaded by a pine tree, and locked her up tight. Next time I unlocked those doors, we were going to be on the clock for USA ACE. I settled in, antsy and excited. I knew I wouldn’t get much sleep; I always sleep poorly before a big day. In spite of everything, I’d managed to make it to Odell and on to Chicago. To be safe I made a reservation on the extra early shuttle bus, confident that my troubles were over.

Day Zero

Friday, April 1

I was the only person on my shuttle bus. It was quite early, much earlier than I really needed to be heading to the airport, but I was awake anyways and would much rather be hours early than a few minutes too late. Australia, along with many other countries, required travelers to provide a negative Covid test before they would be permitted to fly; all of my research said the airport testing location was by far the fastest and most reliable, and unlike many community testing sites, it was guaranteed to give you the correct paperwork required for international travel.

Still, I had my concerns; in my experience if it can go wrong, it will go wrong. I don’t like doing things last-minute for that reason, but the test must be performed within 24 hours before your scheduled flight. I’d intended to hit the airport yesterday afternoon to be 110% certain I’d have the test results in hand, before the truck decided to take a shit and eat up half my day. If I was going to be forced to have the test done on the morning of the flight, I at least wanted to make sure it was done as early as possible. Ideally, with documentation in hand like eight solid hours before boarding. My shuttle driver and I chatted about my upcoming trip, about his life growing up in Cuba and all the places he’d traveled and lived. He’d never been to Australia, but it was on his list. I promised to tell him all about it when I returned, then I gathered up my bags and bid him farewell.

Turns out it was a good thing I had arrived early; apparently my original flight, scheduled four months ago, had been canceled. Since any alternative combination of flights would have significant impacts on my travel schedule they opted to ... you know ... not say anything. They kinda low-key erased me off both my flight legs and hoped I wouldn’t notice, I guess? Or maybe they figured we’d all have more fun trying to sort this out in person at the last minute, which as I mentioned previously is something I’m quite fond of. That’s cool. I guess that explains why I wasn’t allowed to check in for my flight online.

I ended up engaging in one of those conversations ... Have you ever been talking to someone who is so detached from reality that you start to wonder if you’ve been secretly drugged? It was one of those. We can put you on the 4 p.m. flight to Los Angeles, arriving at 6:30 p.m. That’s awesome, except the one and only direct flight this entire week between Los Angeles and Brisbane departs at 6 p.m. tonight. We can put you on a flight to Los Angeles next Wednesday, flying direct into Brisbane the following Friday? Sigh. Ma’am, I’m standing at the airport now. I can’t even begin to tell you how many aspects of this trip will be mangled if you start hacking weeks off my allotted time in Australia. Let’s please work together to get me, from here, to there, very soon-ish. She finally offered up an alternative which, while not ideal, at least didn’t require modifications to the space/time continuum in order to catch my connections. She had me flying from Chicago to Los Angeles, from Los Angeles into Sydney, Australia and flying on to Brisbane from there.

I did voice one concern about the new plan, which is that the two-hour layover in Sydney might not be sufficient for me to catch my connecting flight. I’ve heard nightmarish stories about the Sydney airport; international flights arrive at a far-flung terminal, necessitating a lengthy shuttle ride to catch domestic connections. The shuttles run every 10 minutes under some circumstances, only every 30 minutes under others. The precise details of the shuttle schedule were a bit too murky for my liking. And before I could queue up for the maybe 10-minute, maybe 30-minute shuttle intervals, I would still have to go through international customs. It seemed too tight for comfort, but the desk agent assured me that Qantas would not allow her to book this series of connecting flights if the layover time was insufficient. I blinked at her. This is the same lady who, not five minutes ago, was asking me to travel backward in time to catch a connecting flight to Brisbane. Alas, she decreed that if I wanted to be on my way to Australia today, this mish-mash of flights was my only viable option. Ok, then. Let’s make it happen.

Long before my flights were sorted out, I received a text saying my Covid results were in. I’d tested negative, the digital paperwork was in order, and I was cleared for takeoff. This whole last-minute testing requirement was one of my big worries for the trip, so at least that had gone smoothly. From there it was a whole lot of hurry up and wait. I walked laps around the airport for hours, played some logic puzzles, and at long last boarding for my flight was announced. Finally, I was on my way. The flight from Chicago was packed solid and generally uneventful, as was my layover in Los Angeles. It was after 10 p.m. when I boarded my flight to Sydney; it was a massive plane, yet my head count showed a total of 14 passengers. I was cautiously optimistic; I hadn’t bothered to pay for a seat assignment, saving a few bucks and hoping for the best. As it turned out, each traveler was provided an entire row, wall to wall, all to themselves, staggered in alternating rows so nobody was in the row in front of or behind them. It was one of the first days since general air travel to Australia had resumed amidst the pandemic, so it made sense that the flight was barely filled, and I had a bit more sympathy for the fact that my original flights had been canceled. If I had to guess, I’d say these 14 customers probably represented at least a few different consolidated flights. I settled in for a nice dinner, then stretched out to enjoy a few movies; I not only had 14 hours of flight time to kill, I was trying to align my schedule with Brisbane time in order to minimize jet lag. When I finally reached Australia, I wanted to hit the ground running.

Australia (Oz)

Sunday, April 3 (Australia time)

The flight, while long, was really about as good as an economy flight could possibly be. The food was good, the beer was free, there were ample movies to watch, and I had all the space in the world to spread out. I’m used to scrambling my sleep schedule for rally riding purposes, so staying awake for the better part of a day to align myself with Brisbane time was no big deal.

I was well rested and feeling great when we set down in Sydney, but that euphoria wouldn’t last. The line for customs seemed like it went on for miles (or kilometers, I guess it would be). My luggage was pretty much exclusively riding gear and motorcycle accessories, so they didn’t give me a hard time about anything. I broke free from customs ready to bolt to the shuttle stop, but my sprint ended up as more of a long jump, because the shuttle line reached nearly all the way back to customs.

I hedged my bets and continued trotting down the line, tracing it all the way to the front to make sure that this was, in fact, the right line. Since the shuttle stop itself was far away and well out of sight, it was conceivable that this was actually the line for the bathroom or something, with some misguided traveler midway through the line inadvertently giving bad information to everyone in his wake. No such luck, and now I would be about 30 shuttle butt spots farther down the line. Ah, well — no risk, no reward.

I waited for what seemed like an eternity. I checked my watch roughly every 18 seconds, confirming that it had in fact been an eternity. I think at one point the line actually started moving backwards. This most definitely